Читать книгу So Wild a Heart - Candace Camp, Candace Camp - Страница 6

She reached up toward him, arms outstretched, eyes wide and pleading, mouth contorted in a death grimace. She was pale, her skin white with an undertone of gray, and water coated her skin and clothes. Dark seaweed wrapped around her chest, seemingly pulling her down into the roiling water.

“Dev! Help me! Save me!” Her shrill words echoed through the darkness.

He reached out for her, but her hand was inches from his, and he could not move forward. He stretched, straining every fiber of his being but she remained frustratingly beyond his reach.

She was sinking into the black water, her eyes closing.

“Don’t!” he yelled, grabbing futilely for her. “Don’t! Let me help you!”

Devin’s eyes flew open, blank at first, then slowly gaining understanding. He had dreamed about her again.

“Christ!” He shivered, feeling cold to the bone, and lanced around. It took a moment for him to realize where he was. He had fallen asleep sitting up in his bedroom, dressing gown wrapped around him. A bottle of brandy and a gracefully curved snifter sat on the small table beside his chair. He picked up the bottle and poured some into the glass, his hand trembling so hard that the bottle clinked against the rim.

He took a quick gulp of the drink, warming as the fiery liquid rushed down his throat and exploded in his stomach. He ran his hand back through his thick black hair and took another drink. “Why didn’t you tell me?” he murmured. “I would have helped.”

He was still cold, despite the aid of the brandy, and he stood up and walked over to the bed, his gait a trifle unsteady. How much had he had to drink last night? He couldn’t remember. Clearly it had been enough that he had fallen asleep sitting up instead of crossing the few feet to his bed. It was no wonder, he told himself, that he had had bad dreams.

He crawled into bed, the covers having been neatly turned back by his valet before he left last night, and wrapped the blankets around him. Slowly, between the brandy and the warmth of the bedspread, his shivers slowed down, then stopped. It was June, not really that cold, even for sleeping in only one’s dressing gown, but Devin knew that his bone-chilling coldness had less to do with the temperature than with his most persistent and discomfiting nightmare.

It had been years. He had thought the dream would have stopped recurring by now. But he could depend on it popping up here and there throughout the months, at least two or three times a year. Devin grimaced. He could not seem to keep a farthing in his pocket, but a bad dream he could hold on to for years.

The shivering ceased, and his eyes drifted closed. At least, after all these years, he could sleep after the dream. When he’d first had it, he had stayed awake all night. Time might not heal all wounds, but apparently, with a little help from brandy, it could make them more easily forgotten. With a faint sigh, he slid into sleep.

It was several hours later and the sun was well up when his valet shook his arm gently and whispered, “My lord. My lord. I am sorry to awaken you, sir, but Lady Ravenscar and Lady Westhampton are below, asking for you.”

Devin opened one eye and rolled it up to focus with bloodshot malevolence on his servant, hovering at the side of his bed. “Go away,” he muttered succinctly.

“Yes, my lord, I quite understand. ‘Tis a dreadfully early hour. The thing is, her ladyship is threatening to come up here and wake you herself. And one feels it beyond one’s duties to physically restrain your lordship’s mother.”

Devin sighed, closing his eye, and rolled onto his back. “Is she weeping or warlike?”

“No sign of tears, my lord,” his valet responded, furrowing his brow in thought. “I would say more…determined. And she brought Lady Westhampton with her.”

“Mmm. Makes it harder when my sister joins forces with her.” “Just so, my lord. Shall I lay out your clothes?”

Devin groaned. He felt like hell. His head was pounding, his body ached, and the inside of his mouth tasted as foul as a trash bin. “Where was I last night, Carson?”

“I’m sure I couldn’t say, sir,” his valet replied blandly. “I believe that Mr. Mickleston was with you.”

“Stuart?” Devin summoned up a faint memory of a visit from his longtime friend. It seemed that Stuart had been uncharacteristically flush in the pocket. That explained the hangover. They had probably visited half the hellholes in London last night, celebrating his good fortune—and no doubt disposing of at least half of it.

He sat up gingerly, swinging his legs out of the bed, and waited for the rush of nausea to subside. “All right, Carson. Lay out my clothes and ring for shaving water. Did my mother indicate what she wanted?”

“No, sir. I spoke to her myself, but she was quite reticent as to the object of her visit. She would say only that it was imperative that she see you.”

“No doubt.” He looked at his valet. “I think a cup of strong tea would be in order.”

“Indeed, sir. I will fetch it myself.”

Thirty minutes later, shaved, impeccably dressed in the plain black suit and crisp white shirt that he favored, cravat knotted fashionably under his chin, Devin Aincourt made his way downstairs, looking every inch the sixth Earl of Ravenscar.

He walked into the drawing room, decorated tastefully in masculine tones of beige and brown by the selfsame sister who sat there now. An attractive woman in her late twenties, she had the black hair, green eyes and well-modeled features that were characteristic of the Aincourt family’s handsomeness, and was possessed of a charming dimple in her cheek. She looked up at his entrance and smiled. “Dev!”

“Rachel.” He smiled back at her despite the low-grade pounding in his head. She was one of the few people who was dear to him. The smile faded as he turned toward his mother, a slender blond woman whose exquisite taste in clothes and regal carriage elevated her looks above an ordinary prettiness. He bowed formally toward her. “Mother. An unexpected pleasure.”

“Ravenscar.” His mother nodded to him. She had always preferred formality even in dealings with her own family, believing that to behave otherwise would undermine one’s importance—and whatever had befallen the Aincourt family over the years, they were important.

“I am relieved to see you alive,” Lady Ravenscar went on dryly. “Given the reaction of your servants to the thought of your receiving us, I was beginning to wonder whether you were.”

“I was still asleep. My servants are understandably reluctant to pull me out of bed.”

His mother raised her eyebrows. “It is almost one o’-clock in the afternoon.”

“Exactly.”

The older lady sighed resignedly. “You are a heathen. But that is not the issue at hand.” She waved the matter away.

“I presumed not. Precisely what matter has brought you into this den of iniquity? It must be of great urgency.”

Lady Ravenscar made a little moue of distaste. “I suppose that is your idea of a jest.”

“Very faint, I will admit,” Ravenscar said in a bored tone.

“What brings me here is your marriage.”

His eyebrows rose. “My marriage? I am afraid that I have no knowledge of any marriage.”

“You should,” his mother retorted bluntly. “You are desperately in need of one. You should have been casting about for a suitable girl these ages past. But since you have not made the slightest push in that regard, I have found one for you.”

Devin cast a look at his sister and murmured, “Et tu, Rachel?”

“Dev…” Rachel began in an unhappy voice, looking abashed.

“Don’t be nonsensical,” Lady Ravenscar interrupted crisply. “I am serious, Devin. You must marry—and soon—or you shall find yourself in debtors’ prison.”

“I am not run off my legs yet,” he said mildly.

“You are not far from it, if I understand your vulgar expression correctly. Your estate is in dreadful shape, and Darkwater is literally falling down about our heads. As you would know if you ever made the least effort to visit your lands.”

“It is very far away, and I am not fond of visiting places that are about to come down around my head.”

“Oh, yes, it is easy for you to jest about it,” Lady Ravenscar returned feelingly. “You are not the one who has to live there.”

“You do not have to live there,” he pointed out. “Indeed, I believe you are residing in London right now, are you not?”

“Renting a house for the Season,” his mother said in the tone of one suffering the utmost humiliation. “We once had a house in Town, a lovely place where we could hold the most elegant parties. Now I can rent a house for only two months, and it’s of such a size that I can barely have a dinner for over eight people. I haven’t thrown a decent rout in years.”

“You could live with me,” Rachel told her.

“I already live on your husband’s charity enough. I have him and Richard to thank for the clothes on my back. That is enough without making Westhampton put me up, as well. It is Devin’s responsibility. He is the Earl of Ravenscar.”

“So I must marry to give you a house in Town?”

“Don’t be obtuse, Devin. It doesn’t become you. You have a duty—to me, to your name—to yourself, for that matter. What is to happen to Darkwater? To the Aincourt name? It is your duty to marry and produce heirs—how else are the name and title to continue? And what about the house? It’s been standing since Queen Elizabeth was a child. Are you going to let it fall into complete ruin?”

“I am sure the title will go on.”

“Oh, yes, if you don’t mind that rat-faced little Edward March succeeding to your title. A third cousin, I ask you—and he hasn’t the least idea how to conduct himself, I assure you.”

“I would have said that you thought I hadn’t the least idea how to conduct myself, either.”

His mother cast him a long, pointed look. “You haven’t. But at least you are direct in line. And you don’t resemble a weasel.” She sighed. “It pains me to think of a rodenty Ravenscar. Whatever else one might say about them, at least the Earls of Ravenscar were always handsome creatures.”

“So I am to be the sacrificial lamb on the altar of family, is that it?”

“There is no need to be dramatic. It isn’t as if it isn’t done every day. Love matches are for the lower classes. People like us make alliances. It is what your father and I did. And look at your sisters. They married as they should. They didn’t whine, they just did what the family needed. As head of the family, I can scarcely see how you can do any less.”

“Ah, but doing less is something I am remarkably good at.”

“You are not going to divert me with your jests.” His mother pointed her index finger at him.

“I can see that,” Devin replied wearily.

“You have wasted your entire inheritance since you came into it,” Lady Ravenscar went on relentlessly. “How can you think that you should not be the one to recover it?”

“Mother, that’s not fair!” his sister cried. “You know that every Earl in memory has squandered his money. The blame isn’t all to lay at Dev’s door. If you will remember, it was actually Papa who sold the house in Town.”

“I remember it quite well, thank you, Rachel. You are right. The Aincourts have never been good with money. That is why they always married well.” Having made her point, she folded her hands in her lap and waited, watching Devin.

He rubbed his temple, where the throbbing had picked up in both speed and intensity. “And who is it you wish me to shackle myself to? Not that gaptoothed Winthorpe girl, I hope.”

“Vivian Winthorpe! I should say not. Why, the settlement her father will lay on her would do little more than pay off your debts. Besides, the Winthorpes would never agree to tying their name to yours—they cannot abide scandal. You can scarcely expect a father to agree to give his daughter to a man who…well, who has had the sort of liaison you have had for years.” Lady Ravenscar’s lip curled expressively.

“Who, then? A widow, I suppose.”

“I am sure that you could win one of them over if you put your mind to it,” the older woman agreed dispassionately. “But it would require dancing attendance on her, and frankly, I doubt you would carry through on it.”

“Your faith in me is astounding.”

His mother went on, ignoring his sarcasm. “The girl I am thinking of is perfect. Her fortune is huge, and her father is hot for the match. He fancies his daughter being a countess. You should have seen the way his eyes lit up when I started talking about Darkwater. It seems there’s nothing he wants more than the chance to restore an old mansion.”

“You’re talking about a Cit?” he asked, surprised.

“No. An American.”

“What?” He stared at her blankly. “You want me to marry an American heiress?”

“It is a perfect situation. The fellow made a ludicrous amount of money in furs or some such thing, and he is willing to spend it on the estate. The man is enamored of a title. And because they don’t live here, they don’t know a thing about your reputation.”

“You astound me. You want me to tie myself to some fur trapper’s daughter—someone who cannot speak proper English and probably doesn’t even have any idea which fork to use, and who no doubt looks as if she just stepped out of the backwoods.”

“I have no idea how she looks or acts,” Lady Ravenscar replied, “but I am sure that Rachel and I can clean her up. If she’s a complete embarrassment…well, I am sure she will be happy living in Derbyshire with her father putting Darkwater in order. Honestly, Devin, don’t you realize that everyone who is anyone in this country knows that you are steeped in sin? It pains me as a mother to have to say this, but no self-respecting Englishwoman would be willing to marry you.”

Devin made no reply. He knew as well as his mother that her words were true. Since adulthood, he had led a life that had scandalized most of the people of his social class. There were several hostesses who would not receive him, and the majority of the others did so only because he was, after all, an earl. Fortunately, he had no desire to mingle with most of the peerage and their disapproval left him unmoved. He had also years ago accepted the fact that his mother shared Society’s opinion of him—and his father had considered him blacker of soul than everyone else did.

“I don’t know why you should worry about the American’s social blunders, anyway,” his mother plowed on. “I am the one whose standing could be ruined by a rustic daughter-in-law.”

“Let me remind you that I am the one who would be legally bound to her. I can see her now—too homely to catch a husband back home, even with all her money, wearing clothes ten years out of date, and not an interesting bit of conversation in her head.”

“Really, Devin, I am sure you are exaggerating.”

“Am I? Why, then, did they come to England for a husband? To find someone with a crumbling estate and a vanished fortune, desperate enough to marry anyone with money! Really, Mother, that is the outside of enough. I won’t do it. I’ll find some way to get along. I always have.”

“Gambling?” his mother retorted. “Pawning your watch and your grandfather’s diamond studs? Oh, yes, I know how you’ve scraped by the last few months. You have sold everything that isn’t encumbered and has any value. We’ve laid off half the staff at Darkwater. You have lived a ruinous, licentious, extravagant lifestyle, Devin, and this is the consequence.”

Devin turned toward his sister, who had held her silence through most of the conversation. “Is this what you want for me, Rachel? To marry some chit I’ve never laid eyes on? To have the same sort of happy marriage you do?”

His sister stiffened, tears springing into her eyes. “That is cruel and unfair! All I want is your happiness. But how happy are you going to be when you have to give up this house and live in some one-room flat? You know how much money you spend, Devin. I dare swear it’s far more than what Strong sends you from the estate, and that is only going to get smaller and smaller. You have to put some of that money back in to your lands if you want to keep them profitable, and neither you nor Father ever did that. I know that when Papa cut you off you scraped by on your card-playing skills and the money Michael and Richard gave you. But you won’t want to do that the rest of your life.”

He looked away from her, his silence an assent. Finally he said, “I am sorry, Rachel. I shouldn’t have said that.” He glanced at her, and a faint smile warmed his face. “I have a damnable headache, and it goads me into sarcasm. I know you sacrificed your happiness for the sake of the family.”

“What nonsense,” Lady Ravenscar put in exasperatedly. “Rachel is one of the most envied women in London. She has an exquisite house, a lovely wardrobe and a most generous allowance. A large number of women would be quite happy to have made that sort of ‘sacrifice.’”

Devin and Rachel glanced at each other, and amusement glinted in their eyes. Happiness for Lady Ravenscar would indeed consist of just such things.

“As for you, Devin, I am not asking you to offer for the girl. I merely ask that you consider the proposition. I am having a dinner tonight at my home, and I have invited her to come. The least you can do is come to dinner and meet her.”

Devin let out a low groan. A dinner at his mother’s house ranked almost as low on his list of preferred things as meeting an American heiress.

“I will be there, too,” Rachel put in encouragingly. “Do say you’ll come, Dev.”

“Oh, all right,” he said grudgingly. “I will come tonight and meet the girl.”

The “girl”—much to Lord Ravenscar’s astonishment, if he had known it—was at that very moment engaged in a war of words with her family along the same lines.

“Papa,” Miranda Upshaw said firmly, “I am not marrying a man I’ve never even seen, no matter how eager you are to get your hands on a British estate. It’s positively medieval.”

She crossed her arms over her chest and looked at her father implacably. Miranda was a pretty woman, with large, expressive gray eyes and a thick mane of chestnut hair. Her figure was small and compact, nicely curved beneath the high-waisted blue cambric gown she wore, but her force of personality was such that people often came away with the impression that Miranda was a tall woman.

Joseph Upshaw gazed back at his daughter, his arms and face set in a mirror image of hers. He was a barrel-chested man not much taller than his daughter, whose lithe build had obviously come to her from her mother. He was as used to having his way as his daughter was, and they had gone head-to-head with each other on more than one occasion.

“I’m not asking you to marry him tomorrow,” he said now in a reasonable tone. “All you have to do is go to his mother’s house tonight and meet the man. After that, you can take all the time you want getting to know him.”

“I doubt I shall want to get to know him. He probably has spindly calves and squinty eyes and…and thinning hair. Why else is his family so eager to marry him off? Even without money, an earl should be a good catch. Surely there are wealthy Englishmen who would be willing to sell their daughters for a title.”

“Are you saying I’m selling you?” her father retorted indignantly. “That’s a fine thing to say about a man who’s trying to give you one of the oldest and best names in this country. If there’s any selling going on, I’m the one buying him for you.”

“But I don’t want him.” Miranda knew as well as her father did that in reality he was wanting to buy a son-in-law for himself more than a husband for Miranda. Ever since Miranda could remember, Joseph had been an Anglophile, reading everything he could get his hands on about the English aristocracy—their rankings, their histories, their estates. He was fascinated with English castles and mansions, and wanted desperately to get his hands on one.

“How can you turn him down when you haven’t even seen the man?” he asked her now. “He’s an earl. You would be a countess! Just think how pleased Elizabeth would be. As soon as she’s feeling not so under the weather, I’m going to tell her all about it. She will be thrilled.”

“I am sure she will,” Miranda replied dryly. Her stepmother, Elizabeth, herself English, was even more enamored of the idea of Miranda marrying British nobility than Joseph was. She had come from a ‘good family’ herself, she was fond of telling whoever would listen; and the improvident, impetuous husband who had brought her to New York, then committed the final folly of catching a chill and dying, leaving her stranded in the New World with a baby daughter, had come from a family even higher up the social scale. Her dream was for her daughter Veronica, now fourteen, to live in the world of British aristocracy—to have her coming out, to hobnob with the members of the Ton, to marry a suitably noble husband. The easiest method of accomplishing this dream, she had decided, was for Miranda to marry into the aforesaid aristocracy and then bring Veronica out in a few years.

“You know how fond I am of Elizabeth,” Miranda went on. “She is the only mother I’ve ever known, and she has always been quite kind to me.” Possessed of a kind, easygoing, and rather lazy nature, Elizabeth had never mistreated her stepdaughter or tried to take away control of the household from her. Indeed, Elizabeth much preferred letting someone else handle all the troublesome details of keeping a large house with numerous servants running, for it allowed her to concentrate on her various “illnesses.” “And I love Veronica, too.”

“I know you do.” Her father beamed at her. “You’ve always been like a little mother to that child.” “But that doesn’t mean,” Miranda went on firmly, “that I am going to marry someone just because Elizabeth wants Veronica to make her debut in London society.”

“That’s not the only reason,” Joseph protested. “There’s a grand estate in Derbyshire. And a house—not a castle, grant you, but almost big enough to be one. Darkwater. Now there’s a name for you. Doesn’t it conjure up history? Romance? The Earl of Ravenscar. My God, girl, is your heart dead?”

“No, Papa, it is not. And I will be the first to admit that it’s a very romantic name—although, I might point out, a wee bit spooky.”

“All the better. There are probably ghosts.” Her father looked delighted at the thought.

“Happy thought.”

“Yes, isn’t it?” Joseph Upshaw was immune to irony at the moment. His eyes sparkled and his face positively glowed as he began to talk about the house he had spent the evening before discussing with Lady Ravenscar. “The house was built by one of Henry VIII’s closest friends and supporters. He built the main hall during Henry’s reign. Then, when his son inherited and grew even more prosperous during Elizabeth’s rule, he added two wings onto it to form the classic E-shaped Elizabethan mansion. It’s grand, but it’s falling into complete ruin. Rot in the wood…tapestries in shreds…stone crumbling.” He related the problems of the house with zest, ending, “And we can restore it! Can you imagine the opportunity? The house, the grounds, the estate. We could rebuild it all.”

“It does sound delightful,” Miranda agreed truthfully.

Real estate was one of her primary interests. During her father’s years of dealing with John Jacob Astor, she had had many conversations with that shrewd gentleman, and she had wisely followed his advice and had invested much of her father’s profits in real estate in Manhattan. The risks had already paid off handsomely, and Miranda was sure they would provide even more income in the future. The speculation of buying land to sell at a future date for high profits was fun, but what she truly enjoyed was developing projects—buying land and building something on it that she could then rent to someone, or investing in another’s plan to build or expand or create.

So the thought of restoring a grand old house to its former glory did appeal to her, and she had lived with her father for too long not to have absorbed a great deal of interest in British history and architecture. But she did not want to renovate an estate so much that she was willing to marry to acquire it.

With the look of one delivering the coup de grace, her father went on proudly, “It even has a curse.”

Miranda raised her eyebrows. “A curse? That would be splendid, I’m sure.”

“Oh, it is indeed. ‘Tis a wonderful curse. There was a powerful abbey in Derbyshire, you see—Branton Abbey—and during the Dissolution, when Henry VIII seized all the monastic lands and goods, he took this abbey and gave it to his good friend Edward Aincourt. Well, the abbot at Branton was a tough old coot, and he didn’t go easily. As they dragged him out of the church, he cursed the king and he cursed Aincourt. He cursed the very stones of the abbey, saying that nothing would ever prosper there and ‘no one who lives within these stones shall ever know happiness.’”

He looked at her triumphantly.

“Well. That is an impressive curse,” Miranda admitted. She knew her father’s love of drama and romance too well to be surprised to think that he would find a ruined, cursed house the perfect spot for his beloved daughter to live. To Joseph Upshaw, such a place would be a treasure.

“Isn’t it? They say that Capability Brown did the original gardens. Miranda…how can you pass up an opportunity like this? It isn’t only the house and grounds that need restoring, you know. Apparently the whole estate is also a financial wreck. You could rebuild that, as well. It could be one of your projects.”

Miranda chuckled. “That all sounds very delightful, I’m sure, but there is still the fact that in order to get my hands on the house and the estate and all that, I would have to marry a complete stranger.”

“He wouldn’t have to be a stranger by the time you married him,” Joseph pointed out. “You could have a long engagement, if you wish. We could start to work on the house in the meantime.”

Miranda smiled at her father and shook her head. “I am not marrying, Papa, just because you are bored. Talk about wanting a project…”

“But this would be the project of a lifetime! And it’s not just because I’m bored since I sold out to Mr. Astor. You know I’ve wanted to get my hands on a grand old house like that for years.” He paused, considering her, then went on in a wheedling tone. “Anyway, Miranda, my love, I’m not asking that you marry the fellow tonight. All I want is for you to meet him. See what he’s like. Consider the possibilities.”

“Yes, but then you’ll be asking me about how I feel and ‘couldn’t you just give the man another chance’ and wanting me to go to this Darkwater place to see it, and…”

Her father put on a shocked face. “Miranda! You do say the most terrible things about me. As if I would badger you…”

Miranda quirked an eyebrow at him, and Joseph had the grace to smile. “Well, all right, I do badger you sometimes. I admit it. But not this time—I promise. Just meet the man. It will be nothing but going to an elegant dinner party and making polite conversation and taking a little look-see at him. Couldn’t you do that much for Elizabeth and me?”

Miranda sighed. “Oh, all right. I guess I can meet the man. But I’m not promising anything. You understand?”

“Of course, of course!” Joseph agreed happily, coming over to his daughter and enveloping her in a bear hug.

“Oh, my,” said a soft voice from the doorway. “What joyous thing has occurred?”

The two of them turned at the sound of Mrs. Upshaw’s voice. Miranda smiled at her stepmother, and Joseph beamed. Elizabeth Upshaw was a short blond woman who fluttered whenever she walked—hands, hair, ribbons, laces, the ends of her shawl. When Joseph had met her, she had been a pretty young woman, but over the years, time and inactivity had taken their toll on her, blurring the lines of her face and figure with fat. With a matronly cap on her head and wrapped in shawls as she always was, she looked several years older than her actual age. Though only ten years separated them, there were many who assumed upon meeting them that Elizabeth was Miranda’s mother.

“Elizabeth!” Joseph exclaimed, going to take his wife’s elbow and escort her to the sofa as if she were too weak to walk. Elizabeth had long suffered from a variety of real and imaginary illnesses, and her husband entered happily into her presentation of herself as a fragile woman. Miranda could not quite understand why Elizabeth enjoyed spending her life reclining on couches and beds, bearing her ills with a gentle smile, but if that was the way Elizabeth chose to live, it didn’t bother her. She was quite fond of her stepmother, whose kind heart more than made up for her litany of gentle complaints.

“The grandest thing has happened,” Joseph went on, settling his wife on the couch and making sure her shawl, an afghan and several pillows were settled around her. “I didn’t want to wake you this morning to tell you, not as poorly as you’ve been feeling from crossing the Channel.”

“I know. I’ve always been sadly affected by mal de mer,” Elizabeth Upshaw agreed in a die-away voice. “I dread returning to New York because of it.”

“Perhaps you won’t have to,” Joseph said happily. “Or at least, not for some time.”

“Why? Whatever do you mean?”

“Miranda just may marry an earl.”

“An earl!” Elizabeth exclaimed, sitting up so straight in her interest that her shawl slid down from her shoulders unnoticed.

“Papa!” Miranda said in exasperation, putting her hands on her hips. “There you go. I told you I would meet the man. I have no intention of marrying him.”

“But an earl!” her stepmother breathed, one hand going to her chest as though the news were too much for her heart. She looked wide-eyed at Miranda. “You would be a countess. Oh, Miranda, that is more than I ever hoped for.”

Miranda sighed inwardly, wishing that she had not let her father wheedle her into agreeing to meet this nobleman. Joseph would not have to badger her; after this news, her stepmother would take care of that for him.

Elizabeth’s eyes sparkled, and her face was lit with an animation unusual for her. “Just think—the parties, the wedding—” A thought struck her, and she turned toward her husband. “Do they have a house in Town?”

“No, the Countess told me last night that her husband had to sell it. I believe her son, the Earl, keeps a small bachelor house, but she has to lease a home during the Season. It sounded to be a sore trial to her.”

Elizabeth nodded sagely. “It would be. Having to give up one’s no doubt magnificent home and make do with a rented house every summer. Knowing that everyone knows it…It’s too bad not to be able to have the wedding party in a grand house.” She brightened. “But you can buy one, dear. I mean, we will have to have a house in London if we are to stay here any length of time, and—”

“Elizabeth, please,” Miranda put in gently. “I’m not planning to marry the Earl of Ravenscar. I just said—”

“What?” Her stepmother stared at Miranda, her face suddenly pale and her eyes wide. “What did you say? Who?”

“The Earl of Ravenscar,” Joseph put in. “That’s the fellow we’re talking about Miranda’s marrying—er, that is, meeting. Devin Aincourt’s his name.”

“Oh, my God.” Elizabeth rose to her feet, her hands clenching together. “You cannot marry him. The man is a devil!”